Epilogue
One Year Later
The Wimpole Street house looked as it always did as Iris took hold of Oliver’s hand and descended from the carriage to the pavement. She gazed up at the gleaming white front with its shining black lacquer door and the fan-shaped window above, as familiar to Iris as the back of her own hand.
Yet didn’t it feel different now? Not because she was now living in her own home, married to a man she adored and who adored her, surrounded by his family, whom she adored nearly as much as the man himself.
And not because her work with the Widows had been reduced; while the distance of nearly thirty miles prevented her from immersing herself in the minutiae of their day-to-day activities, it certainly did not prevent her from lending her expertise and assistance to them on a regular basis.
Between her continued work with the Widows and Oliver’s flourishing career as a private investigator, they were in London nearly as much as they were back at their home.
Even so, the place felt different today. Or perhaps it was her. Wasn’t she about to see a long-fought-for dream finally realized?
Oliver, who had been seated next to an increasingly nervous Iris throughout the half day’s journey from their home in Essex, clasped her hand tightly in his in response to her heightened anxiety. There was no one who knew her as well as Oliver, after all.
“Do you need a moment, love?”
“Need a moment? Why would I need a moment? Today is the culmination of my and my mother’s dream; I could not be better.
” She tried for a bright smile. Which was silly to attempt, really.
She had always been abysmal at acting. She wouldn’t have been able to fool anyone, much less Oliver, who was the other half of her heart.
His eyes were calm and steady as he gazed down at her.
“No matter how wonderful today shall be, that does not mean you’re not anxious, love.
I could fetch the package and bring it to you so you can open it in peace.
I know that your emotions must be overwhelming, and it might prove difficult to have so many people surrounding you when you finally have it in your hands. ”
Her heart, which had been thrumming wildly in her nervousness, gave a lurch. Her smile was real now as she beamed up at him, her eyes going misty. He truly was the best of husbands.
“I could not disappoint them. It is as much my triumph as it is theirs.” She straightened her shoulders and marched up the front steps, rapping sharply on the door, stepping back to wait for it to open.
But there was no answer. Another knock, another minute of waiting, yet still no answer. She glanced up at Oliver, bewildered. “I’m certain I wrote to them informing them when we would be arriving.”
“You did,” Oliver affirmed, frowning. “And they responded as well.” Then, shrugging, he took hold of the handle and turned it.
To her surprise it was unlocked, the door opening with ease.
But the house, when they stepped over the threshold into the front hall, was surprisingly quiet.
There was no Strachan striding forward with her mighty frown, no Sylvia calling from the first floor, no busy chaos as the other women went about their respective duties.
Iris blinked, looking about. “Where is everyone?”
But Oliver was already striding to the small table in the middle of the front hall, where a paper-wrapped parcel lay. Wordlessly he handed it to Iris, a peculiar, soft smile on his face.
Iris took hold of it, her confusion growing. A confusion that disappeared like mist when she saw the small note attached to it in Sylvia’s flowery handwriting.
My dearest Iris , it read, how overwhelmed you must be feeling right now.
You worked so hard for this moment, and while I know it will bring you great joy, it will bring great grief as well.
Take the time you need now that you finally have the proof of your and your mother’s hard-won success in your hands.
Let those emotions, both joy and sorrow, wash over you.
When your heart is easier, we will join you to celebrate this incredible triumph.
Your mother would be so very proud of you.
It was signed, With my love, Sylvia . But Iris hardly saw it for the tears that were pouring down her cheeks.
And then she was opening the package and revealing the book within, with its soft green leather cover and gilt lettering so like those journals her mother used to record her every thought in.
The gentle storm of tears became a torrent then.
She hugged the book to her chest, a soft keening falling from her lips as just what this meant came crashing over her head.
All her mother’s hard work was finally being acknowledged.
The world would know just how brilliant a naturalist she had been.
The tears went on and on, so violent she was hardly aware of Oliver’s arms wrapping tightly about her.
Finally the storm subsided, the tears lessening, her sobs transforming into mere hitches of her breath in her chest. She took the handkerchief Oliver handed her and blew her nose into it, then leaned heavily against him as his hands rubbed soothing circles into her back.
“I’m sorry for that,” she murmured into his chest.
“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” he replied, his voice a deep rumble vibrating through her body, soothing the last of the storm within her.
She gazed down at the book. It was so beautiful it made her chest ache.
She traced her fingers lovingly over her mother’s name, the gilt letters shining up at her, winking in the light as if her mother herself were winking at her.
Laying it aside, she turned in Oliver’s embrace and wound her arms about him.
“I daresay,” she said, reveling in the feel of his heavily muscled arms bringing her in closer, “that my mother would have absolutely adored you.”
“I daresay,” he replied, a smile in his voice, “that I would have adored her as well, if only for how dearly she loved you.”
Iris pulled back and smiled up at him. And as he bent his head to take her lips in a gentle kiss, she felt the past was finally well and truly behind her, and all that was left was a shining future with Oliver at her side.